


baby ficlets that will hopefully grow into well-adjusted adult fics

by dreamsoverdeath (dheiress)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coraline Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Sherlock (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid Fusion, Alternate Universe - every haunted house fusion that could be, Ficlets, Horror, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Magic Realism, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23714752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dheiress/pseuds/dreamsoverdeath
Summary: (as the label says)1. The Pygmalion and Galatea AU Nobody Wanted But Everybody Will Probably Still Get2. are these human eyes (also called The Weird Sherlock Fusion AU)3. out of the sea (also called the requisite Little Mermaid AU that went darker than planned)4. the Coraline AU that slides dangerously down the path of all haunted house AU known to all
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 6
Kudos: 79





	1. The Pygmalion and Galatea AU Nobody Wanted But Everybody Still Got

**Author's Note:**

> "why? why start this thing when you have a large list of unfinished fics already?" i hear you ask. well. long story short, i've been traumatically introduced to the delicate concept of laptop and backup drive mortality in the past couple years not once, not twice but fricking thrice. 
> 
> so. 
> 
> to prevent the re-occurrence of me grossly sobbing over the tragic loss of most of my fics which were already at the definitive childhood/teenage stage of their lives, i have decided to use this work as a sort of nursery for any fic that i think has at least a minisculine shot at evolving to fully functional, well rounded adult fics.
> 
> so what i'm saying is beware, collection of WIPs ahead.

-7

“M-my Lord,” stutters Abraxas’ son.

A crowd is slowly gathering around them, the earliest of the Ministry’s workers filing in and stopping to gawk at such unusual sight. No, not at Lord Voldemort, their liege, their Minister, standing amongst them in his robes made of moving darkness, though that in itself must have also been a rare sight. No, they are all, Lord Voldemort himself included, staring at _it—_ the _thing_ which has not been in the Atrium’s glass pillar yesterday but is most definitely there today.

“My Lo-lord,” stutters Abraxas’ son again, “surely, this must be a prank.”

Lucius’ pale eyebrows are arched high in his forehead, his paler lips almost open in a gape. Lord Voldemort wonders what Abraxas has been thinking, siring a child only to spoil it to a point of inanity. It seems rather degenerative for his line, is it not?

“No, Lucius,” explains Lord Voldemort, for he is still a gracious and patient Lord, “it cannot be.”

Lord Voldemort’s own yew wand hums beneath his fingertips, trembling ever so slightly like a human child holding its breath in anticipation. It shivers as magic, ancient and natural, thrums around them—a note from a taut chord plucked firmly by expert fingers. Neither Lucius nor the wizards and witches clustering around them appear to feel such vast, echoing magic tied so closely to the earth beneath them and to the remnants of the people Lord Voldemort has conquered, the people who paid dearly for questioning the might of the greatest wizard that has ever been. Like with everything else, Lord Voldemort alone is aware of it.

He is the most special one, after all.

“This cannot be a prank, Lucius,” he repeats to Abraxas’ progeny. Lord Voldemort takes a step closer to glass, the air behind him expectantly arrested. “This is magic older than you and I, perhaps older than anything could be.”

The boy—man now, Lord Voldemort supposes though he has some qualms about it—lets out a sound of both disbelief and curiosity.

“What—what is _it_ then, my Lord—Minister?”

( _It_ is rather small in stature—compact, one may describe it—with a trunk as broad as an adult’s body. The foliage is thick and messy, scrawny branches twining together to form larger knots of wood with spiky leaves so green they are almost luminous against the grey walls of the Ministry. Clusters of familiar blood red berries dotted the underside of its foliage, much like drops of tears suspended before its inevitable fall. Its gnarled roots seamlessly taper and merge down to the hundreds, thousands, of wood shards beneath it. No one has seen it bud, let alone discern how it could have and yet—

And yet.)

Lord Voldemort smiles. There is something terribly beautiful about the whole thing, though he cannot yet put it into words. The vivid green of the sharp leaves, the shine of the perfectly shaped berries, the messy branches, the twisting roots growing from broken wood shards.

(At the middle of the Atrium, inside the glass column half-filled with the broken wands of those that dared defy Lord Voldemort—a holly tree grows.)


	2. are these human eyes (it's an experiment) ((also called The Weird Sherlock Fusion AU))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a vampire, obviously,” Ron said with an exasperated pitch on his voice.
> 
> “It’s not a vampire, obviously,” Tom retorted, sarcasm dripping all over him. 
> 
> They both turned to Harry, expecting him to pick a side, meaning their own respectively. Harry cleared his throat and turned to Hagrid instead.
> 
> “What’s this I keep hearing about an acromantula, Hagrid?”
> 
> Hagrid beams at him as if Harry has asked about his firstborn son, which knowing the groundskeeper is probably what the acromantula means to him anyway.

* * *

From the way Neville described the man, Harry thought he would be sharing the flat with an obsessive-compulsive, eccentric, octogenarian with an irritating habit of poking his wrinkled nose in official auror business. He got two out of four correct, almost three actually, but no one would ever call Tom Riddle’s nose wrinkled. People, even the ones Tom annoyed to no end, would call it regal, Grecian, high born, well-defined, or anything else that basically boiled down to not-wrinkled _._

After all, Tom Riddle ( _the fourth obviously, really Harry, you should have realized that just by the state of my curls and the way I uttered my t's, as always, you see but you do not observe_ —) was bloody handsome.

* * *

“Give me a name,” Tom said softly and it was almost like a lover’s whisper, if one can ignore the fact that he was crushing the shoulder of the man whimpering pitifully beneath him with the heels of his boots.

“Tom,” Harry warns, his wand held high but at this point he wasn’t sure if he was readying himself to use it on Quirrel, a wanted criminal, or on Tom, someone known to lose himself to the thrill of a magical chase. Tom ignored Harry, instead pressing his foot harder against the wound Harry’s ill-thought reducto caused and repeating his query, “All I’m asking for is a name, Quirrel. Just give me _your benefactor’s name_.”

Harry flinched as more blood slugged out of Quirrel’s shoulder.

 _“Vo…Vol-Voldemort!”_ Quirrel screamed and there was a red glint growing in Tom’s grey irises in the same way a manic grin was emerging on his handsome face, “his name is _Volde_ —!”

* * *

The first time Harry met Tom, he felt laid bare to the world as if he were a diary opened to spill back out the secrets inked into it.

“So,” the man, handsome but more pompous than Draco Malfoy had ever managed to be, had enunciated, his ‘s’ a snake swirling around to eat its own tail and forming an ‘o’, “an ex-auror, a former seeker, a Hogwarts graduate—most likely Gryffindor and the same batch with Professor Longbottom here—extreme likeness to a certain minister-to-be, to whom I detect paternal issues lay with but let’s not got there yet—and oh, let’s not forget this,” here he pointed to the thick book on the table between them, Lily Potter’s _Chemition: Bridging Muggle Chemistry with Wizarding Potions_ , “given all those things, who else could you be but our infamous Harry Potter?”

The man had rolled his eyes, his curls shaking as if in agreement with the sentiment.

“Got to dash, sorry, let’s talk about your parental abandonment issues later while we discuss the conditions of our flatshare, I have to see Hagrid about his acromantula.”

“I beg your pardon?” Harry had repeated, disorientated. He remembered himself foolishly gaping at the man as he had shucked on his pristine robes and travelling cloak. Harry hadn’t said anything about a flatshare, had only even considered renting a flat that morning when Neville brought up his former flatmate. He hadn’t even introduced himself yet.

“The flat is in muggle London but the landlady is a witch so all kinds of wards are in place. Just look for Tom Riddle in 221C Baker Street.”

And then the handsome prick winked.

And then he breezed out of the greenhouse like he owns it.

Harry had turned his open mouth to Neville who had been cooing at some shaking leaves that Harry strongly suspected to be a baby mandrake.

“I didn’t tell him anything about you, Harry, I could haven’t,” Neville, who didn’t have any decency to look directly at him, had simply shrugged, “he’s just always been like that.”

And alright, okay, that had been amazing, Harry must confess. The man didn’t use legilimency—which Harry would later learn the man was capable of perfectly performing wandlessly and silently—and still he was _spot on._ Amazing—

Oh merlin, that was all he’d been sputtering to Tom Riddle all these years, wasn’t it?

_Amazing._

But it was true.

He was simply _amazing_ —the brilliant, arrogant, handsome prick.


	3. out of the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Severus,” he hears her say. She neither comments on his quivering form upon the water’s edge nor on his two stubs of tentacles, one healed and the other fresh.  
> “The Dark Lord has had relations with the boy,” Severus impulsively utters because he does not know what else to do with this fact.
> 
> She remains silent.
> 
> He looks up at her, “You are not surprised.”
> 
> Narcissa holds his stare as she leans onto the cove’s rim, near where he lays prostate. She pulls herself half up, the water lapping at her glimmering, almost transparent fins. Her mouth hovers above Severus’ ear.
> 
> “I thought you should know,” she says, a breath of a whisper, “He saved the boy seven years ago.”

(also called the requisite Little Mermaid AU that went darker than planned)

* * *

The right hand of the previous king, it is the bone of the father forcibly taken.

The severed tentacle of Severus’ own, it is the flesh of the servant dutifully given.

“My Death Eaters,” He says, voice both sharp and sinuous across the thick, still waters. “We are now at the final crest of our vision, the last obstacle from our great hurrah, you might say.”

The Dark Lord pauses, his smile a sharp twist of a C carved into the marble of his flesh.

“Only a single item remains.”

“I’ll do it,” Bella hisses, pleads, her dorsal fins flapping against each other erratically. “Please, my Lord, let me do it.”

Severus closes his eyes, his forelimb wrapping almost absentmindedly around the stub of his seventh tentacle.

“Bella,” He smiles slowly, drifting towards her, “my bloodthirsty Bella.” He strokes her cheeks, His long, winding tail tightly wrapping around her own tail and torso. He squeezes her for a brief moment that had Bella opening her mouth and gills in passionate glee.

She has always been engaging with petty, one-sided contentions with Severus when there is clearly no need.

“There is absolutely no need for that.” He says as He abruptly glides away from her, obsidian scales finely cutting her exposed middle, drawing out ribbons of dark blood across darker waters. She keens as He swims towards Severus, red eyes glinting with intent.

As if her sharp teeth and mindless devotion can make Him turn away from Severus’ unparalleled intellect.

“Severus,” the Dark Lord says, His serpentine face becoming distant, His red eyes looking far away, up towards the bright world of the surface, “ _I need the boy, it must be him.”_

Severus bows his head, his many remaining limbs quivering in anticipation. Oh, when their master has obtained it, everything will be _glorious_. He remembers the green eyes and red hair that haunt both his nightmares and fantasies every night and Severus thinks _finally—_

“I know of an infusion, my Lord,” he whispers, “three days and two nights it will give you a human form to deal with the boy.”

* * *

(He rises out of the sea and He is _beautiful,_ the boy will not have a chance to say _no_ )

* * *

On the first day, his master does not talk.

Severus uses the eyes of a gull that skimmed too close the sea’s surface to watch Him stumble across the shore, His seemingly helpless naked form stark white against the dark gray sands. He projects what he sees into a mirror Goyle has scavenged from an old shipwreck, letting the others see what he does.

“He is reduced,” Bella wails at the sight of His human form, all pale skin and dark curly hair. Gone are the scales, the tail, the fins, the _teeth_. A few others murmur an agreeing sound.

The boy is playing with his white, hairy dog, and he has not yet noticed the Dark Lord’s form staggering from the shore but he will. He will and when he does—

The boy runs towards their master, shucking off his coat and draping it over His tall heaving form when he reached Him. The dog follows noisily, barking as it lopes towards the boy and the Dark Lord. Severus watches the boy’s mouth move, reads him say, “Are you okay? My gods, what happened?”

He sneers, what a foolish boy the chosen one is, so naïve and pure but that, of course, is why the Dark Lord has selected him out of many that could have been otherwise honored.

As if somehow sensing his presence, the boy tosses a curious glance back at the beach, at the ocean. Though he remains unsuspecting of the seagull perching innocuously at a jutting rock, Severus sees the green eyes and—

— _her green eyes, wide not with fear or revulsion he has come to expect with humans but with awe and open curiosity. “Hello,” she lisps, her red hair bouncing lively as she braves the cold dark waters, holding out her hand to him, “what’s your name? I’m Li—”_

Severus cuts his connection with the animal immediately.

* * *

(The boy is grown now, but He can still see the ghost of the pale child shivering on the waves of a storm-brewed sea and He almost, almost drops his head onto the crook of the boy’s neck and shoulder to _take a bite **—**_ )


	4. (don't) give it a hand, offer it a soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come look at this thing born between the notes of ‘Peer Gynt: In The Hall Of The Mountain King, Op. 23, No. 7’ by Edvard Grieg and ‘It Will Come Back’ by Hozier. It’s a fetus monster that may not even reach its primary childhood years but if anything happens to it, I’ll kill everyone in this website and then myself.

**_you know better babe (you know better babe) than to look at it (look at it like that)_ **

There is this house in Godric’s Hollow; an old, rotting thing absolutely nobody likes to look at. They all scurry onward with their heads down and eyes averted every time they must pass this house; its bleak brown walls overcome with dead yet climbing weeds, and its dull glass windows that are either broken or boarded. The door hangs limply open on its hinges but no one, not even the rowdiest of their teens, has dared to go inside for years, decades, maybe even a century. An angle exists between the ground and first floors, giving the house a crooked look while the brick roof is half torn from the main mass, tilting forward dangerously but never falling off completely, creating a slithering abyss atop the house that no matter the shine of the sun remains completely filled with disturbingly moving shadows. Not a bird or insect can be seen in the garden, which within the sharp black fences continues to grow gray and scrambling things.

(Perhaps, if you stare long enough, you’ll begin to see the similarity of the derelict façade to a kneeling man, nearly decapitated.)

But the ruin of the house never goes beyond that as if it were somehow preserved from time, as if it were a man frozen just as he is crossing the line between life and death.

Most of the people of Godric’s Hollow say that a great evil has been vanquished in that house.

(Some say that the evil never left.)

_**y _o_ u know better babe (you know better babe) than to talk to it (talk to it like that)** _

“What is _that_?” Harry asked.

Lily never heard such wondrous distaste from her son until that very moment wherein they, mother and son, gaze upon the house James’ Great-great Aunt Luna bequeathed them. House was too kind a word for the thing in front of them, really, what with the decaying walls and shuttered windows but James’ sigh behind them bordered from tired to frustrated, so Lily simply pressed her hand down on her son’s shoulder. She felt James’ gaze on her face but she turned down to Harry’s unruly mop of a head and kissed it.

“Look at it this way, baby,” she whispered, “Now, you have more than one room to play in when Dudley comes to visit.”

Harry’s face snapped up at that, his little nose scrunched and the telltale beginnings of a tantrum’s furrow between his eyebrows.

“I thought the purpose of us moving here was to _not_ have Aunt Petunia and the Dursleys visit anymore?”

Aunt Petunia and the Dursleys. James taught Harry to call her sister’s family that. Lily, on a better day, would pull a face and let James know exactly what she feels about that. Alas, the hectic morning rush of the move, the long ride from London to Godric’s Hollow, and her bitter fight last night with James left her exhausted and wanting nothing more than a good night’s sleep.

“That, My Prongslet,” James answered Harry with exaggerated laughter, swinging their suitcases out of the car boot, “is a century old wonder your Great-great-great Aunt Luna has graciously provided us. It’s a bloody historical marvel, surviving wars and what-nots.”

Harry gave his father a dubious stare and Lily couldn’t help but see how a perfect mix of her and James their little boy was.

“I like our London flat better,” Harry whispered to Lily, bright eyes darting over the _house_.

James must have heard it still, because he dropped their luggage and lowered himself on one knee besides Harry to look up at him, “Tell you what, Prongslet. I will take you to three rooms,” here he held up his fore, middle, and ring fingers, their wedding ring catching the glint of the sun, “just three; the library, the bedroom that overlooks the pool behind the house, and the Tapestry room. If you still don't like the house by then, we will go back to the London flat, m'kay?”

“The tapestry room?” Harry asked, eyebrows raised but Lily could see that his interest has been piqued.

James nodded, “Yep, Tapestry room, your great-great-great aunt Luna kept records of the whole family, as in,” here James flapped his arms wide open, causing Harry to giggle, “the _whole_ family and she made a Tapestry out of it. It’s a very big room. If you look hard enough you’ll see mine and Padfoot’s name there.”

It never gets old, seeing the way her son’s face brightened up with excitement; Lily could feel some of Harry’s awe trickle to her skin and felt grateful for it. James wide open arms closed around Harry, scooping him up to settle him on James’ shoulder. Harry was getting big enough for the motion to be uncomfortable for James but up the air and down broad shoulders Harry had still gone, laughing all the way. Lily smiled at the picture her son and husband made, heart easing.

With Harry and no luggage in tow, James opened the rusty black gate with a rustier black key. _Crick, crick_ , _crick,_ said the gate. As James passed through the creaking gates, Harry patted the spikes on top as if it were a puppy. Leaning on the brick post, she watched them march through the sea of brambles and into the house—oh for god’s sake, the door was not even properly hinged. Whatever goodwill Lily was feeling vapourised in the instant she saw the state of the door. Out of the three hinges, only the bottom one was intact and the door jamb and casing did not appear as if they could they take the stress of any repair.

The only decent hardware shop they passed was an hour ago, the two others barely nothing more than glorified resellers of paint and nails. Lily groaned, and Sirius and Remus were just bound to leave now, after office hours, meaning that even if they avoid the Friday rush Lily would still need to wait for three hours _at least_ before she could see the rest of their furniture and have another couple pairs of hands to help rehabilitate this _house._

(Was there even electricity in the house?)

It was going to get dark _soon._

Lily stared up at the house, feeling desperate enough to mutter “Please tell me you’ll be better than our London ex-flat.” But not foolish enough to believe it, really.

The house, of course, remained silent; half the roof remained hanging, the floors remained crooked, and the windows remained shattered and boarded. The door remained unhinged. Lily sighed. How can James ever think that they could live here without properly repairing the house, at the minimum?

She took the handles of the suitcases; they weren’t really that heavy if you use the wheels properly, it was just physics. The October sunset looks especially red today, its light reflected by the leaves of the surrounding trees then doubled back by whatever reflective surface the house managed to keep. Lily started trudging up the house, following the same gravel path almost obscured by grasping dead weeds that James traversed earlier, when a movement caught the corner of her eye.

It was a shadow on the first floor, a child’s, flitting through room to room. _Harry_ , Lily thought with great fondness. James must have shown him something really interesting if he was that active. He stopped at the right most room where the window is half boarded, half broken glass. Lily waved at Harry. Even if he mustn’t have clearly seen her, Harry enthusiastically waved back.

“Mum!”

Lily’s eyes dropped back down the gaping front door where Harry was waving at her, a wooden box in his hand. “Look, Dad and I found a music box!”

James was already walking towards her. “Let me carry these,” he said, placid, as if she were an old lady crossing the street.

Her eyes ran up towards the right most room of the first floor.

There was nothing there.

(Or was it?)

**_(don't) give it a hand, offer it a soul, (honey) make this easy_ **


End file.
